Letters to John
by theweepingangels
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Fall. AU where John did the jumping and Sherlock did the watching. Partially told in letters, from Sherlock to John.
1. Chapter 1

**Pairings: Johnlock**

**Summary: Instead of it being Sherlock who jumped, it was John. Afterward, Sherlock decided to write letters to John to put on John's grave. It will not all be in letters, but a great majority will be.**

**Warnings: Small amounts of alcohol and drug abuse. Possible violence.**

**Disclaimer: I OWN NOTHING. (I wish I did)**

* * *

John

I visited St. Bart's today. The sky was clear, and the sun was bright. Would you have liked it? I'd like to think so. Molly gives her regards. She has been rather kind to me, despite how awful I am to her. She says she forgives me. I am starting to feel emotions for the first time in a long time. So this is what it's like to feel human. I find humanity highly overrated. I find myself talking to you quite often, and then I'll look up, and you won't be there, and I'll realize you won't ever be there. And other times I'll just go on talking. I've started sleeping. It seems to be the only way to escape the awful reality I'm living in. One without you.

* * *

John

HOW? WHY? WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME! DID YOU NOT PREDICT THE EFFECT THIS WOULD HAVE ON ME? YOU IMPROVED UPON MY LIFE SO MUCH, AND NOW... you've ruined everything.

* * *

John

I'm sorry. That was mean.

* * *

John

People keep coming round saying the things people always say.

"I'm sorry."

"He's in a better place now."

Bullshit.

And they keep saying "passed away"

I wish they would just say it.

You DIED. You committed SUICIDE.

Fuck them all.

You died. That's what people do, right?

* * *

John

My alcohol intake has increased significantly. I rarely find myself without beer or wine or whiskey in my hand. I have taken up smoking again as well. You would have hated it. You did hate it. You do hate it. Tenses are confusing when someone's dead. Oh I'm sorry. "Passed away." My head has been an absolute jumble since you left. Lestrade has had to send me home quite a few times because my head's messed up. I think I'll have to stop working. I'm slowly descending into insanity. More so than before.

* * *

John

Come home. Please. I ...

* * *

**Not finished yet, I will try to update fairly regularly. This was a short chapter, just to get some readers, see if anyone is interested. Reviews, both good and bad are gratefully accepted!**


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock sighed, placing the pen on the desk. Seemed just yesterday John had been tossing him that same pen. He raised his whiskey to his dry, parched lips. He sighed and leaned his head back. And it was there he fell asleep. He was not accustomed to sleeping, and therefore, when he did sleep, he did so in random places, such as the other day on the tube, and then he ended up all the way across London. He had decided to walk back. He rarely dreamed, but when he did, it was always the same dream:

_Sherlock burst into the flat, looking around wildly. As he was doing so, Ms. Hudson came down the stairs, looking worried. "Sherlock, what's wrong?" He simply stared at her for a second, wide-eyed. He then turned swiftly around, coat swishing after him as he stumbled out the door and into a cab. "St. Bart's, as quickly as possible." He yelled at the driver. The cab pulled out and raced toward St. Bart's. Sherlock urged the driver to go faster, but he seemed only to go slower, and every second was one second closer to getting to John. He threw several bills at the cab driver, not bothering to think about over or underpaying. He had only one focus: finding John. Sherlock felt he was in trouble, and he had to... just then his phone rang. He fumbled around trying to get it out, but it kept snagging on his coat. He finally wrenched it free from his coat and pressed the answer button. _

"_John?" _

"_Hello Sherlock." _

"_Where are you?"_

"_Look up."_

_Sherlock looked up to see John on the edge of the roof._

"_What are you doing on the roof? Hang on, I'm coming up."_

"_No! Stay there. I have to tell you something. It was all a lie."_

"_What? What was a lie? I don't understand."_

"_Our friendship. That's the lie. I was never really your friend. I never cared. I'm an actor. Hired by Moriarty. To get close to you. To see what makes you tick. But I never meant for it to escalate to this."_

"_Escalate to what? What do you mean?"_

_Sherlock's voice broke on the you._

"_Goodbye. Sherlock. I..." John hung up and tossed aside the phone. Sherlock's heart was racing. What could it mean, what was John doing, what did he mean by 'goodbye?' What was he going to say before he hung up? John stretched out his arms. Sherlock's eyes widened as he realized what was happening. But it was too late. John leaned forward and fell. Sherlock ran forward, rushing, trying to get to him in time, but John was falling too fast. He hit the ground with a sickening crack. _

"_NO! JOHN! JOHN NO!" He rushed over, pushing through the gathering crowd. "Let me through, let me THROUGH! That... That was my friend."_

Sherlock's eyes burst open, and he jerked his head up from the uncomfortable angle it was laying at. His black curls were plastered to his forehead with sweat. He pushed his curls off his forehead and sighed. That was the fifth time he had had that dream this week. And it was only Tuesday (he had fallen asleep multiple times on each day). He pushed his chair back from the desk, and stood up, stretching. He had a pounding headache, no doubt due to the four bottles of whiskey he'd had. He sulked over to the kitchen, fumbling around in the drawers until he found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. He lit up and placed the cigarette between his lips, taking a drag. A knock came suddenly at the door. He half walked, half dragged himself to the door and yanked it open. Molly stood in the doorway, clutching at an envelope. She held it out to him. "Lestrade sent it over. Case information." Sherlock did not take it. He shook his head. "I will not be returning to work for a week or two. I shall see when I return." And he shut the door in his face. He walked back over to the desk, and sat down to write another letter to John.

John

I have not returned to work yet, and I might not for several weeks. I feel so different, John. I'm not me, not anymore. Molly came by with case information, and I informed her she should tell Lestrade that I will not be at work for a while. I have forgotten what it is like to feel excited over cases. It's not the same without you. You never know what you're missing out on until you have it, but you don't really appreciate it until it's gone.

John

It has been a week since Molly came by. Ms. Hudson has been leaving me alone for the most part, except the occasional check in, to make sure I'm not dead. I've forgotten what it's like to feel sober. My alcohol consumption grows ever higher, as does my cigarette count. I've stopped sleeping again, and have fallen back on horrible television. I miss your reaction to my commentary. Your chair has been moved upstairs. I can't bear to look at it anymore.

John

Today Lestrade came by. I didn't open the door. I just told him to leave. I don't want to see anyone if they aren't you.

John

Lestrade is here. He forced his way in and is now demanding I come live with him.

"Sherlock! You cannot keep living here! You're wasting away! You're always drunk and you are tearing up your lungs with that smoking. And when was the last time you slept?" Lestrade ranted to Sherlock.

"You sound like my father." was all Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, please. Just come live with me. I think it will be good for you." Sherlock sighed. He got up and headed toward the door, to tired to protest any more. He stomped down the stairs and waited for Lestrade by the door. Lestrade finally came down the stairs about five minutes later carrying Sherlock's coat and scarf and a small suitcase with some of Sherlock's things in it. Just as he was about to go outside, Sherlock said, "Wait. I need something!" and ran upstairs.

"It better not be those blasted cigarettes!" Lestrade called after him. Sherlock returned a few seconds later with a handful of envelopes. He pulled on his coat and stuck them in the inside pocket. He then opened the door and strode outside, hailing a taxi.


	3. Chapter 3

"Eat."

"No."

"Sherlock."

"Lestrade."

"Eat the bloody eggs."

"These eggs aren't bloody."

"You know what I meant. Now eat."

"I don't like eggs Benedict."

"You have to eat sometime. You'll die otherwise."

"I'm fine."

"Eat."

"No."

Lestrade threw his hands up in the air in frustration.

"EAT THE EGGS, SHERLOCK!"

"FINE." Sherlock stabbed at the eggs with his fork and shoved them into his mouth. He raised his eyebrows at Lestrade as if to say 'Happy?' Lestrade sighed.

"It's like living with a five year old." He muttered under his breath. Sherlock finished shoving the eggs in his mouth and stormed over to the desk in front of the window. He pulled out a piece of paper and pen. Lestrade sighed and walked out the door, calling over his shoulder,

"I'm off to get groceries." Sherlock gave no sign that he had heard Lestrade and simply continued to write.

_John_

_After Lestrade came by, he dragged me back to his flat. I didn't have the strength to resist. Life with Lestrade is quite different from life with you. He despises it when I preform experiments. He'll throw them out. He told me that if I want to do experiments, then I can do them somewhere else. So I don't do any experiments. I don't wish to leave the flat. Lestrade is talking about trying to get me back to work, but I continue to refuse. It wouldn't be the same without you. Mostly I just lie around the flat until Lestrade makes me eat. I'm sleeping less again. I'm sober and I'm back on the nicotine patches. Maybe I'll feel better again someday._

Lestrade walked into the flat, carrying the groceries. He shut the door behind him. Sherlock did not acknowledge his presence, and simply continued to write. Lestrade sighed and carried the groceries to the kitchen before walking over to Sherlock. He glanced over his shoulder, but all he saw was 'John' before Sherlock was folding up the letter and stuffing it in an envelope. He placed it on top of a stack of envelopes that teetered and threatened to topple over.

"Letters to John?" Lestrade asked, a note of surprise in his voice.

"Maybe. What's it to you?" Sherlock replied, guarded.

"You should take them to his grave. Give you some closure."

"I don't need closure."

"Look, Sherlock. I don't know what else to try. You are a miserable wreck. You need to do something. This will get you out of the house and it will give you some closure. We're going."

"Fine." Sherlock got up, grabbed the envelopes, stormed out of the flat and onto the street outside. It was cloudy and raining. 'How _s_u_r_pri_s_in_g_. It n_e_v_e_r rains in London." Sherlock thought, sarcasm seeping from the thought. Lestrade followed soon after, carrying Sherlock's coat and scarf. Deja vu plagued them both as they thought of the day Lestrade had gotten Sherlock out of 221B. Almost two weeks ago. 'How time flies when you want nothing more than to die.' thought Sherlock. He pulled on the coat and scarf over his pajamas. He almost felt like himself. But then he turned to the side, and where John should have been, there was only Lestrade. Sherlock turned around and strode to the street, flagging down a cab. They climbed in, and the cab pulled away.

"Poor weather, as always."

"Don't."

All forms of communication failed. They pulled up to the cemetery after a long uncomfortably silent car ride. Sherlock yanked the cab door open, stalked over to the grave, threw the letters down, and stalked back, just as Lestrade was getting out of the cab after paying the driver.

"Let's go."

"Sherlock, just stay a little longer."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Why should I?"

"Because you cared."

"He didn't." Sherlock turned his back and flagged down another cab. Lestrade sighed, something he seemed to be doing a lot more since Sherlock came to live with him. He turned to follow Sherlock into the cab, all the while muttering to himself,

"Blasted John Watson."

John sat at his desk in his old flat, plain and boring, and without Sherlock. Life had slowed down quite a bit since his "suicide." He was attempting to find the gunmen Moriarty had set on his friends, but it was proving to be much more difficult than he had first assumed. At a complete loss, he decided to go visit his grave. See if anyone cared that he was gone. He put on a hat and scarf along with a long overcoat, to ensure no one would recognize him. A bit silly, but it wasn't worth the risk. He flagged a cab and rode over to the cemetery. There was his headstone, cold and simple. White marble, with only his name. Placed upon the grave were several bouquets and a few British flags. 'Nice.' He thought. 'It would be nicer if I could tell them I wasn't dead. But not yet. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it.' He heard a cab door slam behind him. He spun around quickly and saw Sherlock getting out of the cab. He glanced around quickly, and darted into the trees along the side of the cemetery. There he watched as Sherlock threw something down on top of the grave and stormed back to Lestrade, who had just gotten out of the cab. They were talking, but John couldn't hear what about. He crept closer.

"Why should I?"

"Because you cared."

"He didn't."

John watched Sherlock as he strode away, his heart breaking. He had really hurt Sherlock. At least he judged so from that statement, the five nicotine patches he could see, and the distant look in Sherlock's eyes. After he watched Lestrade get in the cab, he walked back over to the grave to see what Sherlock had thrown down. It was a stack of envelopes with his name on the top one. He picked them up and stuck them in his coat pocket. He was curious what Sherlock could possibly have to write about. He walked back to the street, hailing another cab to go back to his flat.

Once back, he pulled off his coat, hat and scarf and set the letters down on the small desk next to his laptop. He then turned toward the too small kitchen and went to make himself some tea. Once the tea had brewed, he came back to the desk, sat down, and stared at the letters, too scared to open them, and too scared not to. They were like Howlers, whether you opened them or not, it was a ticking time bomb. He sighed and finally reached over and picked one up, sliding his thumb under the flap and ripping the envelope open. He pulled out the letter and began to read.


End file.
